


Whiskey. Neat.

by LemonsandRosemary



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV), A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: AU - No schism, Brief descriptions of bad M/F sex, F/F, Fingering, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, a timeline so poor I'm calling it an AU, although Esmé is still kind of villainous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-11-07 17:20:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20820968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LemonsandRosemary/pseuds/LemonsandRosemary
Summary: Classic mutual pining with added sexy content.Completed!I report pedophilesDon’t interact with my fics if you post/read ageplay or sexual content that features minors, even if they’re aged up





	1. Chaise Longue

Esmé Squalor had known she was a lesbian at the age of four. Her father had asked her what kind of man she thought she might like to marry, and she had resolutely responded that she had absolutely no interest in marrying a man and on that front, she had never wavered. In this instance, it was purely her own avaricious instincts that had forced her hand. She required access to the V.F.D. tunnels and Jerome was the only volunteer she had found that was dim-witted enough not to see through her scheme. 

So, as she lay glaring at the ceiling of the forty-fourth bedroom, the only bedroom she would ever let Jerome so much as touch her in, she reminded herself that all this incessant thrusting would pay off when Jerome eventually perished in a mysterious fire in the east wing of 667 Dark Avenue. She sighed, if Jerome continued to rub himself on her perineum like that was going to get her off, they were going to be here for hours. 

“Jerome, darling?” She said through a grimace, “Could we perhaps move slightly?” 

“Sure.” Jerome panted. 

It was all Esmé could do not to retch, but she shifted herself on top of Jerome’s hulking mass and adjusted herself so Jerome could at the very least scratch an itch. Esmé gritted her teeth and circled her hips. Two minutes went by, and then three, and four. It became increasingly clear that Esmé was not getting anywhere. She rolled her eyes and bit her lip, she fluttered her eyelids closed and allowed the face of the only person she had ever thought about during sex with Jerome to swim into view. The mere thought of the V.F.D.’s resident optometrist was enough these days to ignite a sensation in the pit of her stomach that no man had ever matched. Within seconds she could feel her core responding positively and it took only a further three minutes of batting Jerome’s hands away from her before she finally tipped, just barely, over the edge.

She allowed herself ten seconds of feeling the residual jutters inside her stomach before removing her hips from Jerome’s, trying not to gag at the squelch and exiting the room. Jerome called after her,

“Did you-?” He asked, dazed. 

“Yes.” Esmé hissed. 

“Great!” Jerome laughed and flopped back into the pile of tasseled pillows. 

Esmé ignored him and strode to her second favourite dressing room - a mere five minute walk from the forty-fourth bedroom along plush carpets. She draped herself over the edge of the gilded chaise lounge and gazed up at the ceiling. The quandary of Georgina Orwell had been plaguing her for months now. Every fleeting thought of the dark-haired doctor rendered Esmé completely incapable of rational thought. She sighed and tried to pretend that the hand wandering toward her core was moving of its own accord. 

It only took thirty seconds of idle daydreaming about how soft Georgina’s hair would feel before Esmé drifted her fingers across her clit. She shed the silk coverup she always insisted on wearing with Jerome and allowed the back of her thighs to stick to the vintage leather. The drift of the cool air against her core always did something to her that she couldn’t quite identify. She felt herself clench and then, once again preferring to think she was helpless about the scenario, plunged her fingers into herself. Riding her fingers with one hand tangled in her hair was always one of Esmé’s favourite ways to get off, at least, on her own. She screwed her eyes shut and tried to think of anyone -anything- but the, decidedly heterosexual, object of her affections. 

The first time she had approached Georgina was at a charity ball she had hosted for the Agents Against Anaplasmosis. Esmé did not like being rebuffed at the best of times, but particularly not in her own ballroom, as the city’s most lucrative charity fundraiser and hostess. 

“So, what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?” Esmé’s eyes glinted across the top of her martini glass. She gave herself a leisurely moment to drink in the older woman. Dr. Georgina Orwell was clad in a velvet suit of a deep emerald. Cigarette trousers skimmed thighs that Esmé thought looked strong enough to ride and the way her lapels sat across a bare décolletage gave Esmé a glimmer of hope that there may well be nothing at all under the other woman’s blazer. 

Georgina smiled, “As a volunteer, I am required at these events, Esmé, you know that.” Counter espionage measures weren’t particularly necessary in the hum-drum babble of a large ballroom. It was difficult to make oneself heard on an interpersonal level at a large-scale alcoholic V.F.D. gathering, never mind trying to overhear anyone else’s conversation. Georgina trusted that any of their adversaries who happened to be present would have difficulty discerning any useful information from Beatrice’s incessant moaning about how cute her baby was and Josephine’s equally incessant grammarly feedback. 

Esmé smiled, “Of course, Georgina.” She took a breath tested the waters slightly, “Brave choice. Not to wear a necklace with a suit like that.” She allowed her eyes to drift towards Georgina’s neck, and her pointed collar bones. 

Georgina narrowed her eyes, “And what could you possibly mean by that, Ms. Squalor?” 

Esmé shrugged, “Nothing, I’m sure.” The gleam in her eyes betraying her. 

Georgina smiled and took Esmé’s bejewelled wrist in her gloved hand. It took Esmé a moment to comprehend the sympathy written on her face before she ripped her arm from Georgina’s grasp. 

“I am not interested in pity.” She growled.

The memory swum before Esmé’s eyes as she dared to imagine an alternative history. Georgina pulling her forward by her wrist, breathing hushed sins into her ear. She thrust three fingers into her slick centre and moaned at the delightful, bordering on painful, stretching sensation. 

She bit her lip and let out a frustrated moan. It was almost impossible to get the pressure she wanted on her clit with her fingers otherwise preoccupied. She tore her free hand from her hair and thrust it toward her clit. While she was nowhere near as dextrous with her non-dominant hand, never mind trying to navigate her way around her fingernails, it felt like seconds before her hips bucked and her core convulsed. 

She hissed, “Fuck.” She added a fourth finger and rode the wave of her orgasm until her clit burned. 

She shrugged her silk coverup back over her shoulders and flopped flat onto the chaise lounge with a satisfying leathery squeak. She blew a glossy curl off her face and screwed her eyes shut in the hope it would rid her brain of the only image that lingered behind her eyelids.


	2. Gala

Esmé enjoyed particular parts of the balls she threw. She enjoyed the glittering lights, after all, was it really a ballroom is there was no ball in it? She, of course, enjoyed the fashion. Assessing who was _in_, and who was not. There were few things she enjoyed more than a hushed conversation about-

“-that _dress_. I can’t _believe_ she would leave the house in that never mind attend a gala.” The offending garment was a mid length shift dress with an ombré glitter hem. “I mean, mid length? Please, that’s _so_ two weeks ago.” Esmé pushed her empty glass into the hand of whomever it was she was talking to, the details escaped her, as she swanned over toward the bar. She ordered the latest _in_ drink, something clear and fizzy with a stalk of celery in lieu of a stirrer. 

She leaned her back against the bar and surveyed the room. As always, the presentation of 667 Dark Avenue was exquisite. The freshly waxed floor gleamed and the chandelier twinkled like stars in the night sky. Members of the V.F.D. circled the room, some avoiding each other, like Kit and Olaf who, Esmé observed, were still trying to feign distaste for one another. Others were far too intimate for her liking. She did not, for example, enjoy the sight of Beatrice with her tongue mere inches away from Lemony Snicket’s ear, nor did she enjoy how handsy Georgina Orwell was with, well, everyone. 

The doctor was drifting about the room laughing with everyone who gave her the time of day. Esmé couldn’t help but notice Georgina’s outfit; a skin tight dress in a daring garnet ending midway down velvety soft thighs, with a positively scandalous neckline, all topped off with an obsidian blazer that was making Esmé’s mouth water. Esmé rolled her eyes and then felt her stomach drop like a stone when she saw the optometrist approach her. 

Georgina propped herself on the bar before flashing a smile at the bartender, 

“Whiskey. Neat.” 

“Drinking to get drunk?” Esmé quizzed. 

Georgina scoffed and settled her elbows on the bar behind her, facing the room and avoiding eye contact. 

“Bad date?” Esmé followed up, nodding at the man Georgina had been talking to moments before. He wasn’t _unattractive_ Esmé thought, but then again neither was any other average looking man in a black suit with dark hair and a well kept beard. 

Georgina sniffed, “Not a date, per se, more of a business connection.”

Esmé took a sip of her drink, trying not to grimace at the celery flavour, “That’s a yes, then.” 

“You always were too observant for your own good, I’ve been trying to shake him off all night.” Georgina sighed, “I’m getting too old for this.” 

Esmé took another sip of her drink, not managing to avoid wincing this time, and stayed quiet. She could feel Georgina’s penetrating gaze though she refused to acknowledge it. She felt a blush rising up her neck and attempted to tune her ears to the low babble of the room, rather than on the pounding heartbeat in her throat. 

A few moments of silence punctuated the lumbering air between them before Esmé threw herself off a particular, well trodden, cliff she knew she would regret.

“You should just start dating women.” Esmé had no patience for innuendo when it came to Georgina. 

It wasn’t the first time she had done this. Nor was Georgina the first supposedly heterosexual woman she had tried it on with. The problem with lots of women, Esmé thought idly, was that they just weren’t determined enough to reject men outright. They got swept up in arduous, boring relationships with men which almost always reduced them to wives. Esmé pointedly ignored her husband waving frantically at her from across the ballroom. Esmé had honed this sense for jaded heterosexual women over the years and was consistently expert at identifying, and then enlightening them. Never without permission, of course, but the power of suggestion was potent, particularly when it came from a heavily perfumed associate who was decidedly adept with her fingers. 

Georgina sighed, “How many times are we going to rehash this Esmé?” She drained the rest of her whiskey. “Two more.” She held her glass up toward the barman. 

“Two?” Esmé asked. 

“One is for you.” Georgina clarified, “If I have to watch you scowl into that drink one more time I’m going to throw it at you.” There was an edge to Georgina’s voice that suggested she might not be joking. 

Esmé exhaled and waited for Georgina to pass her the glass. She stared into the bottom of the crystal tumbler, her second best set, they refracted light exquisitely, but she wouldn’t mourn the loss of one or two of them if Olaf got handsy. She picked him out of the crowd, after scanning her eyes halfway across the ballroom. He jaunted around the room in a circuit pointing out his freshly acquired tie-clip to anyone who would listen ‘oh yes well I got it from my brother-in-law’s sister’s cousin, yes the painter, oh yes we get on _quite well_’. He wore some kind of ghastly three piece ensemble that Esmé was quite sure was causing her eye strain. 

Georgina rolled her eyes, “He really is quite irritating, isn’t he?” 

Esmé laughed weakly but before she could devise a response, Georgina continued, her tone sober.

“Esmé you’re a formidable woman, and you do look particularly enticing in a suit, I’ll give you that, but we both know that _this_,” she paused to let the allusion land, “isn’t an option.” 

Esmé gritted her teeth; she loathed being dismissed. She was, after all, a woman who was used to getting what she wanted. She allowed the charged silence to hang in the air, as if it would change Georgina’s mind. 

Georgina placed her drink, still full, back onto the bar with a soft tap. She turned away from Esmé, still evading her gaze, and Esmé heard the click of her heels on the marble floor as she strode away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates Wednesdays and Sundays at 9pm BST!


	3. Shower

Georgina jabbed the button for 667 Dark Avenue’s elevator, the chatter of the ballroom and Esmé’s words still ringing in her ears. She blamed the alcohol but as she stepped into the deserted elevator and it began its descent into the depths of the apartment block, her head spun. Her knuckles blanched as she grabbed the icy hand rail. She screwed her eyes shut and focused on suppressing the urge to vomit. 

Georgina opened her eyes and, for a few blissful moments, was calm. Then the memory of the previous night’s ball and Esmé Squalor’s proposition came flooding back to her. Georgina frowned and blinked heavily, as though that would erase the thought from her brain. Mercifully noting that she had avoided a hangover, she exhaled and hauled herself out of bed and into the bathroom. 

Georgina had always had a distaste for her bathroom. She’d intended to redecorate when she moved in but, as usual, life had impeded her ability to alter the space to her liking. The real issue she had was that the tiles were a particularly unflattering shade of navy, while the overhead lighting was a harsh white. While Georgina liked to think that she wasn’t a vain person, the lighting in her bathroom, combined with the full length mirror, all too often led to moments of intense self criticism that were longer than she would care to admit. 

This morning it was her hands. ‘You can always tell a woman’s age by her hands’ she heard the dulcet tones of her mother reverberating around her skull as she pulled at the loose skin around her wrists. She bit the inside of her cheek and shook her wrists out, as if clearing the thought from her head, before pushing her hands into her hair and, upon feeling the familiar slick of grease, decided that it definitely did need washing. 

One thing that Georgina had made the time to upgrade upon moving in to her house was the shower. Georgina could not abide by showers that felt like little more than a weak drizzle of rain. Instead, she had opted for a waterfall shower that was so hot and pressurised that it occasionally felt like it was going to rip her skin off. She turned the heat up. 

After coating her hair in conditioner, she felt her hands idly wander the rest of her form. Her ribs had begun to protrude at odd angles that she wasn’t entirely sure she liked and her hip bones now felt much squarer than they used to. She allowed herself to lean against the frigid tiles, offering respite from the burning shower jets, and nonchalantly ran a finger across her core. It didn’t take her long to decide that the ends of her hair _had _been feeling slightly dry this morning and that they clearly _needed _more time to condition thoroughly and that self indulgence never hurt anybody. 

She thrust two fingers into herself and, noting that she really ought to reinforce to her manicurist exactly what she meant by short, used her thumb to circle her clit. She sighed, feeling the familiar warmth of blood pooling in her sex and slick heat coating her fingers. The drumming of the shower cleared the morning fog from her brain while the pulsing in her core grew more insistent. She switched her thumb for the heel of her hand and curled her fingers. She hummed and rocked her hips in time with her wrist. She felt the pressure build and, gently, she cascaded over the edge. 

She moaned, “Esmé.” 

She jerked upright. _This is not happening, Georgina._ She warned herself sternly. But even the thought of the blonde villainess made her want to fuck herself into abandon. The problem, she mused, was that she didn’t trust Esmé as far as she could throw her. _Well, that and the heterosexuality._ She thrust her locks back under the scalding water, hoping to divert her attention away from nefarious financial advisors. Though the niggling sense of doubt that had settled itself in her abdomen suggested that heterosexual women didn’t think about what it would be like to have their tongues inside-

She turned off the water and heard her own breath reverberating off the tiles.


	4. Opera

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one’s a little late! Life happened. Hope you like it!!

Esmé received the V.F.D. signal four hours before the organisation was expected to assemble at the opera house. She shrugged on her newest pinstripe blazer and, in an expression of delusional optimism, opted for a swipe of lipgloss rather than a dark lipstick. She felt her stomach clench as she exited 667 Dark Avenue, wordlessly thanking every deity, dead or alive, that Jerome was on business. The night air carried with it a nip of frost that made Esmé glad she had chosen not to wear a dress. She took a deep breath, allowing it to numb her sinuses, and walked towards the glittering streetlights in the distance. 

The foyer of the city’s most famous opera house was buttery and warm in comparison with the biting chill outside. Esmé made her way across the densely packed entrance toward the bar, ignoring Bertrand Baudelaire dancing on the edges of her vision, tonight was, after all, a covert affair. 

“Whiskey. Neat.” 

She heard the stern voice float up from the far end of the bar, and was momentarily distracted, until a bartender appeared in front of her with hideous crimson bangs and equally obnoxious lipstick. 

She put her hands in the pocket of her black apron and caught Esmé’s eyes, “Anything I can get you, Ma’am?” 

Esmé placed her forearms on the bar and chanced a glimpse along the polished bar, failing to spot her interest, she turned back to the juvenile the opera house clearly trusted to serve drinks. 

“Whiskey, neat.” She responded, before drawing herself up to her full height and assessing the room. 

She could see Bertrand, now closer to the centre of the rich blue carpet entertaining a band of giggling theatre patrons, Josephine edging around the mirrored staircase, and Monty adjusting his silk bow tie in the mirror behind a waist level fountain that she was sure delivered secret messages. She heard the ten minute call and made her way toward the stairs. 

The V.F.D. had received a tip that an assassination attempt would be taking place tonight on the daughter of a foreign political dignitary, they had asked for the V.F.D. to disseminate themselves through the audience and keep watch on any unorthodox characters. Subsequently, Esmé was seated near the end of a row in the circle, rather than in her preferred box, which hung just over the edge of the pit. Pushing her way past plush burgundy curtains she found her way to her seat, the cold rivulets of the upholstery catching her wrist as she sat. The orchestra tuned in a jarring symphony of discordant notes that she was sure would level out when the performance began. She picked a loose thread in the velvet of the armrest and scanned the stage for a sign of movement behind the curtain and flicked her eyes over to the diplomat's seat and took note of the surrounding security staff. Three men sat around him and his teenage daughter and, although they were stationed separately, their identically tailored suit jackets affirmed them as belonging to the same staff. 

The lights dimmed as the orchestra began a wailing lament. The curtain came up and a solitary woman entered from stage left; Beatrice. Esmé rolled her eyes. 

Esmé felt the weight of a person sit in the seat beside her and a subtle glance revealed none other than Dr. Georgina Orwell. It took all of Esmé’s strength not to turn her head to observe the other woman.

Instead she settled for a hushed challenge, “What are you doing here?” 

Keeping her eyes fixed on the stage, Esmé felt, more than saw, Georgina shuffle in her seat. 

“The same thing as you.” Came the whispered response. 

Esmé allowed every question she couldn’t bring herself to ask to burn in the darkness like a flare from a sinking ship. 

Long seconds ticked by as she waited for Georgina to say something. 

Instead, she heard herself hiss, “We’re supposed to be dispersed.” In an increasingly frustrated tone. 

Georgina shrugged, “I guess I didn’t get the message.” She paused, “Or maybe I have better things to look at.”

It took a lot to surprise Esmé Squalor. She was a woman who prided herself on the ability to predict trends, both in the fashion and financial worlds. She also was not one to take others’ comments at face value. Which is why, when Georgina Orwell said something that so brazenly sounded like flirting, Esmé scoffed. 

The rest of the opera passed in thick silence. Esmé kept half her focus on the ambassador in the stalls and half on the brunette next to her. The tension hung in the air like a blanketed pressure on her chest. From the glance that she dared to steal at the floor beside her, she could see that Georgina had chosen to wear studded suede boots with a chunky heel that, for some inexplicable reason, made her calves look sleek and firm. Esmé blinked hard and convinced herself not to bite her lip.

Beatrice drew her attention with a particularly deafening note that Esmé hoped signaled the end of the show. Her speculation was confirmed a few moments later when the orchestra crescendoed, Beatrice emitted a note that Esmé had not considered possible with the human vocal cords, and the lights flicked off. She could feel a collective sigh of relief from the V.F.D. at the relative serenity of the evening.

After a brief, pitch black, interlude the lights came back on and Beatrice, now in the centre of the stage, led the ensemble in bowing to the politely clapping audience. Esmé could hear Lemony making obscene noises from somewhere to her right and Georgina clapping, somewhat more reservedly to her left. 

The cheers gradually died down as the curtains obscured the players from view. Esmé admired the shade of shimmering green the curtains seemed to project outward before tilting herself to face Georgina. 

Georgina raised an eyebrow, “There a debriefing at my coordinates.” 

Esmé narrowed her eyes and whispered, “The message said nothing about a debrief.” 

“It’s more of an inner circle thing,” she insinuated, “just a few of us.” 

Esmé inclined her head, “Is this what I think it is?” 

Georgina shrugged, “That depends on what you think it is.” 

Esmé skimmed the area and satisfied that most of the theater patrons were busy swiftly exiting their rows, she continued, accent dripping, “I think you want to fuck me.” 

To Esmé’s utter bewilderment, Georgina’s face flushed, “Then it probably is.” She paused, an edge of awkwardness entering her voice, “What you think it is. I mean.” 

Esmé raised on eyebrow, “What changed your mind?” 

The flush colouring Georgina’s face crept down her neck, “Maybe I’ll tell you later.” 

Esmé grinned as Georgina turned to lead the way. “I think I’ve got a pretty good idea.” She murmured.


	5. Couch

Esmé wasn’t sure what she had anticipated of Georgina’s house but this was not it. Now that she thought more about it, she had envisaged a clinically cold optometrists office, perhaps with a bed stashed in a discreet corner. 

“This is lovely.” Esmé said, attempting to sound nonplussed. 

Georgina rolled her eyes, “Don’t sound so astonished. What did you expect? Fluorescent lighting and portraits of thousands of eyes? Please.” 

Esmé bit back a sarcastic comment and allowed herself to be swept into a drawing room. Casting a glance upwards, Esmé observed a flat, alabaster ceiling, edging down into a hazelnut toned paint. 

“Did you decorate yourself?” Esmé asked, evenly, noting the accents of gold and deep umber. 

Georgina nodded, “Does it surprise you?” 

Esmé wasn’t accustomed to the desire to be honest, but the deep clenching sensation that had been present in the pit of her stomach since the opera made her seemingly incapable of lying, “Not really.” 

Georgina busied herself making drinks on an oblong tray that Esmé guessed was probably antique, late Regency at the earliest. She crossed the room and placed herself behind Georgina, her hip edging dangerously close to Georgina’s lower back. She placed her hand on the console table in front of her and tilted her head towards Georgina’s ear. 

“What am I drinking tonight?” She breathed. 

Georgina swallowed, “I have a scotch you might like.” 

Esmé allowed her hip to graze Georgina and felt a jolt in her chest. She heard Georgina’s breath quicken. Esmé delicately leaned over Georgina’s shoulder to breathe in the scent of the whiskey Georgina had just opened, the heady notes of Georgina’s perfume catching in the back of her throat. Georgina handed her a glass of amber and Esmé flicked her eyes over Georgina’s lips. Esmé sipped, feeling the laden silence between the clinks of her glass. Dark eyes met hazel orbs and Esmé couldn’t resist biting her lip. 

“So why am I here?” Esmé already knew the answer, but she never passed up an opportunity to stroke her ego where possible. 

Georgina looked up at Esmé and shrugged, doing her utmost to play herself off as aloof, “I changed my mind.” 

Esmé narrowed her eyes, “People don’t just ‘change their minds’ about this sort of thing, Georgina.” 

“So I didn’t change my mind.” Georgina paused, “I still want you to fuck me, what’s the difference?” 

Esmé grinned and drained the remaining liquid from her glass, wincing at the raw burn it left in her throat. 

“That’s a sipping whiskey you know.” Georgina barely managed to interject before Esmé’s lips were on hers. 

Esmé continued to taste the heat of alcohol in Georgina’s mouth, along with something smoother and much sweeter. She caught Georgina’s bottom lip between her teeth and was rewarded with a resonant moan from the shorter woman. It crossed Esmé’s mind to ask whether Georgina had ever slept with a woman, but having the other woman’s tongue edging at her lips and her heart thrumming in her ribcage, it didn’t seem like the most appropriate moment to ask. 

Georgina broke the kiss only for a moment to flick her eyes toward the staircase, “Upstairs?” 

Esmé considered, “Or?” She inclined her head towards the high backed leather couch. 

Georgina nodded and allowed herself to be led across the room. Esmé looked at her, dark eyes glinting, “You should know I don’t get on my knees particularly often.” 

Georgina bit her lip, understanding the hint. She allowed Esmé to strip, although noting that she opted to leave her blazer in place, and sunk to the floor. Esmé threw her head back over the edge of the couch, feeling the hazy rush of the whiskey, and parted her thighs. 

Feeling Georgina’s tongue dance on the edge of her clit answered her earlier question, “This isn’t the first time you’ve done this.” 

Georgina chose to ignore the question in favour of tasting the sharp edge of Esmé’s wet heat, finding herself rewarded with a sharp intake of breath. Georgina pressed the flat of her tongue against Esmé and heard her hum. 

“More.” Came the simple command from above Georgina’s head. She felt a firm hand tangle itself in her hair and obeyed. She dug her fingernails into tender thighs and sucked Esmé’s clit. 

Esmé moaned, “Fuck.” 

Esmé hadn’t considered that her fascination with the optometrist was more than idle fantasy in the face of a husband who was utterly tedious. But here, with her cunt warmed by Georgina’s ragged breathing, Esmé sensed this was more than bedtime fantasy. She clenched her fist tighter into Georgina’s hair and bucked her hips. 

“_Fuck_ Georgina, you’re good at this.” She hissed breathlessly. 

Georgina cast her eyes over the other woman, she was a glistening picture of helpless arousal in the dim lighting of Georgina’s lounge. 

Georgina withdrew her tongue only to ask, “More?” 

Esmé answered with a heated whimper, “Yes, _God_, yes.” 

Georgina plunged her tongue between Esmé’s folds and pushed two fingers into her. The obscene grinding motion Esmé made with her hips told Georgina that the third finger that followed was a welcome addition. 

Esmé could taste the edge of an orgasm and bit her lip. She felt her core clench as she dug her nails into Georgina’s scalp. Esmé felt Georgina moan from between her legs as her orgasm reverberated through her. She swallowed a long list of obscenities that came to mind and settled for a strangled, “God, Georgina.” 

She felt Georgina’s teeth graze her thigh and utilised the hand that was still knotted in Georgina’s hair to pull the other woman up toward her. She kissed her, allowing herself to revel in the slickness of her own come and the deep caramel taste that Georgina seemed to emanate. Georgina looked up at Esmé through her lashes, eyes pleading. 

Esmé raised an eyebrow and used the edge of her finger to tilt Georgina’s face upward toward hers, “Do you want a turn, darling?” 

The knot in Georgina’s stomach tightened as she realised exactly what Esmé was asking her to do. 

“Please, Esmé.” 

Esmé grinned and edged her hand toward the hem of Georgina’s dress. Threading her free hand back into Georgina’s hair, she pressed her lips to the other woman’s as she teased Georgina’s clit with her fingers. 

She felt Georgina hum against her lips as she shamelessly used Esmé’s thigh for friction. Esmé obliged and thrust two fingers inside her and moved her lips down towards her neck. She nipped at delicate skin as Georgina gasped, clinging to the back of the couch. 

Esmé rocked her fingers in tandem with nips to Georgina’s jugular that were becoming less gentle and felt like they would almost certainly bruise. 

“More, Esmé, _please_.” Georgina whined. She felt Esmé breathe a laugh but she was rewarded with the heel of Esmé’s hand offering much needed pressure to her clit. She continued to grind herself on Esmé’s hand between mumbled begging.

“Fuck Esmé, I’m so close, more please. _Please_.” 

Esmé thrust a third finger into her and Georgina whined, biting down on the closest surface which was, judging by Esmé’s hiss, her collarbone. Seconds later, Georgina felt her core jolt and her legs shake. She was grateful that Esmé opted not to remove her fingers until Georgina had definitively collapsed onto her thighs. 

Esmé retracted her fingers from Georgina’s underwear and, in a display that made Georgina flush crimson, licked them clean. 

Georgina bit her lip, “Thank you.” 

Esmé grinned wickedly, “My pleasure, sweetheart.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! This is the end of this work but more is coming, I promise <3
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has left comments on this! I really appreciate it!


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